


Don't Swear at the Moon. Brat.

by TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet dancers are HORNY YO, But he's still Levi dw, F/F, F/M, Gen, I'm not good at this tag/warning stuff there'll be more to come at some point, M/M, Mikasa's a dance prodigy because of course she is shes MIKASA FUCKING ACKERMAN, Multi, Slightly taller Levi, Smut, So much smut, Tall Eren, Who let me do this?, rivamika, seriously guys I need to start handing out virtual condoms to these horndogs, tall Armin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11576736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee/pseuds/TheOnlyCoffeeIsStrongCoffee
Summary: There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity.Erwin Smith was frequently reminded of this when he opted to launch a fledgling ballet company following an acrimonious creative break-up, the likes of which stunned the ballet world. A new normal was forged from the fallout; you either sided with Dok - or with Smith.His old friends, Levi Ackerman and Petra Ral - a dance partnership for the ages - were to be his saving grace, his seat fillers, his investment securers. They were the lynchpins in this, the difference between success and abject failure.When personal circumstances force a change of casting and the company is suddenly without one of its brightest stars before the new ballet season has even begun, Erwin must pull someone from the ranks of his company to fill the vacancy. Someone bright and bold and talented.Someone capable of partnering Levi and not losing their mind in the process, someone brilliant.Or, the one where the SnK gang are all dancers in a ballet company.Think Black Swan, only in a different city, with different characters, more smut, more fun, roughly the same amount of angst and less psychological unravelling.So, not Black Swan at all.





	Don't Swear at the Moon. Brat.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I should not be allowed to write summaries.
> 
> Owing to the fact I can’t dance for the foreseeable future in any capacity, I need to get my ballet fill somehow. This is one of those ways.
> 
> Credit to the wonderful Rivamika fam on Discord and Tumblr for some awesome social media handle ideas and just generally being awesome people. Go hit up die_forellex’s tumblr if you want to get in on the action, we’re a friendly bunch! ヽ(*・ω・)ﾉ
> 
> This is my first time writing again after a looooooong intermission, so expect exposition, tropes and hopefully a grand old time.  
> If not, get some wine.  
> Wine makes everything better.

NEW YORK CITY, NY.

 

LaGuardia airport is objectively and without compromise, a shithole.

The runways, for some godforsaken reason, intersect one another. As if organising one giant strip of tarmac to be placed _next to_ instead of _across_ the other was simply too difficult a concept for planners to grasp.

The southwest terminal does a fine job of preparing passengers to leave its dark and dank embrace for brighter lands, by virtue of being what is essentially a skinny hallway with a couple of second-rate food outlets shoved alongside the wall. Anyone would be delighted to board an aircraft or hurl themselves into a taxi and be taken far, far away from the dull purgatory of New York City’s Number Two International airport.

Rows of reinforced plastic chairs are scattered wherever there are large enough spaces to fit them as opposed to where they are actually needed.

The constant ground delays (courtesy of the runways) serve only as further motivation to get the fuck out of dodge for the poor souls trapped within the LaGuardia’s frigid walls.

It was also, in Levi Ackerman’s opinion, absolutely fucking filthy.

He had skirted around the vague and numerous stains on the carpet approaching the check-in desk (the idiot that decided carpet was an appropriate flooring choice for such a high traffic area was deserving of being pushed into the Hudson) and glowered at the dust and grime lining the stucco tiled ceiling.

One of the waiting rooms had two display screens (one turned off, the other not even plugged in if the dangling power cords were anything to go by), and inexplicably, a broken disco ball. It is whilst glaring at this disco ball, and waiting for his gate to open, that Levi Ackerman felt the overwhelming desire to punch Erwin Smith in the face.

_Like fuck is he ever booking flights on my behalf again._

Levi stabbed Erwin’s icon on his phone, none too gently. He briefly wondered what the odds of finding something suitable for human consumption were as he listened to the phone ring distantly.

 _“Levi!”_ a relaxed voice opened with.

“Fuck LaGuardia with a rake.”

Erwin chuckled, his throaty rumble crackling down the phone line. “ _Glad to be leaving?_ ”

"Thrilled. Everything ready on your end?”

“ _Give or take. The apartment is ready and waiting for you, the new talent are all arriving in the next few days and will be ready for the season’s briefing on Monday. I can’t tell you again how much I appreciate you postponing your retirement for this, Levi, I really can’t._ ”

“Tch,” Levi's eyes followed the small flurry of people collecting their belongings as the departure board flickered with an update. He got to his feet and swung his leather pack over his shoulder. “I can think of worse things than sticking it out in Paris for a year with you idiots. My gate’s just opened, so I’ll talk to you when I land. Give my best to Petra and Four Eyes, will you?”

_“Do you need a ride from the airport?”_

“No, I can manage,” Levi winced, narrowly avoiding a pair of sticky-handed toddlers making a bid for freedom from their mother.

_“Very well. I have some new casting updates to run by you, but they can wait until Monday. Safe flight, Levi.”_

“See you,” Levi muttered before the line clicked dead.

Shoving his phone in his pocket, he cast his eyes to the departures board. Thirty-two years old, on the cusp of retirement from an illustrious career, and jumping ship to a fledgling company on a different continent.

 

Gate C71.

_Here we fucking go._

 

_~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ * ~ * ~ *~ *~_

 

JUST OUTSIDE PARIS, FRANCE

 

The French countryside was slowly giving way to the brutalist, industrial buildings flanking the outskirts of the City of Lights, fat raindrops snaking down the train windows of the quiet coach.

Mikasa sat with her head against the window, idly skipping from app to app on her phone, eventually settling on torturing herself with the Instagram feeds of two of her closest friends. She clicked on a picture of two young men, their arms slung around each other's shoulders and an idyllic scene of sunny skies and deep, blue water behind them.

They were tagged on the _Promenade des Anglais,_ each holding a crepe and beaming into the camera.

 

 **ereneffinjaeger** Soaking up the sun and sightseeing in Nice with this one before we fly to Paris for the next chapters of our career!! Can’t say more until Monday, but so stoked to share the news with you guys!!!!!!! #nice #niceisnoiiiiiiiiiiice #seriouslytrythecrepesifyouevergettovisit #balletbros

**1 day ago**

♥ **11,354 .  201 COMMENTS**

 

The corner of Mikasa’s mouth lifted, the joy on Eren’s face reaching through the screen, a bittersweet reminder of the years they spent together as an inseparable trio before circumstances tugged at the strings connecting them. _But that's over now. New beginnings._

She jumped to Armin’s profile, selecting the most recent picture uploaded - an arty picture of a powder blue rehearsal room, the yawning ceilings curving elegantly out of frame, mirroring Armin’s stretch against the barre. His hair had grown out slightly since Christmas and was pulled back in a fashionable half ponytail. He looked . . . older. Confident. Happy. He was smiling at someone out of frame, earphones slung around his neck.

 

 **bringmetheocean22** Sad to be saying goodbye to so many amazing friends and teachers at the @academieprincessegrace. It’s been a wonderful three years of learning and discovery. But now it’s time to move onto the next adventure! #academieprincessegrace #monaco

**1 day ago**

♥ **2081 .  28 COMMENTS**

 

After outstanding performances at the Youth America Grand Prix finals three years prior, Eren, Mikasa and Armin were all offered partial scholarships to study at the Princess Grace Academy of Ballet in Monaco, a dream come true for any aspiring professional.

The circumstances that pulled them apart for three years were never far from her mind.

_“Can you believe it?! We’re gonna go study in Europe!” Eren’s eyes shined with delight, tucking into his rapidly melting ice cream with gusto._

_The trio sat on the steps of the Lincoln Centre enjoying the fruits of their trip to the parlour across the street given the unseasonably mild April weather.  
Dancers, teachers, guardians, costumers — consumers of dance in all their varieties were milling around the theatre entrance, deep in conversation with their colleagues. Some were still in the throes of attempting to convince the judges that their student honestly _ can _do better, it’s just that their achilles had been causing them_ so _many problems leading up to the competition, it really wasn't fair._

_Mikasa had all but forgotten her ice cream cone and was intently observing Carla and Armin’s grandfather. They had the proud, slightly tired look of guardians used to ferrying their kids to and from competition after competition after rehearsal after rehearsal.  
Of course, days like today made the effort all worthwhile - a bronze medal for Armin in the classical senior division, a special commendation for Eren’s performance in the contemporary senior category, and a gold medal for Mikasa in classical ballet followed by a slew of tuition offers for all three. _

_Mikasa smiled weakly as Eren started taking pictures, her mind wandering to the conditions of the scholarships offered to them. The Academie Princesse Grace had offered a place of study for each of them, to the value of 50% of the tuition fees. Eren had immediately set his heart on studying in Monaco, and of course where Eren went, Armin and Mikasa surely weren’t far behind._

_However, Mikasa’s mind was in turmoil. Despite the very generous scholarship package, the onus was on Carla and Grisha to somehow conjure up the funds to send both Eren and her to a notoriously expensive principality._

_Their childhood dance instructor, Mr Shadis, had been commenting on Mikasa’s intensity in the weeks leading up to the final, her dedication exceeding what was expected of even her. She had taken to biking to the rehearsal studio in the frigid mornings, intent on making use of the empty studio time before opening hours; she was usually awake by 5am, running through competition outcomes in her mind. May as well make use of the pre-dawn hours to practice._

_The second time Mikasa broke into the studio before opening, Shadis had relented and provided her with her own set of keys and security code, recognising that the likelihood of dissuading her from doing so was extremely low.  
Provided she kept the intensity of her early morning exploits on the lower end of the scale, Shadis had no issue with allowing her private rehearsal time, although he was quick to remind her that should the quality of her lessons with him start to fall, he had no compunction about revoking her private access. _

_The first morning Mikasa had been officially permitted early entry, he had arrived to open the studio, coffee in hand and a scowl on his face; he could hear the lively composition of the Don Quixote piece they had been working on from the parking lot.  
An ominous sign, as Mikasa had a somewhat strange tendency to match the intensity of her dancing with the volume of the musical accompaniment. _

_Fully expecting the entire day to be a write-off and his student exhausted before proper classes had even begun, Shadis had stomped towards the rehearsal room. Somehow sensing his presence, Mikasa quickly turned the music off, scrambling for a water bottle from her bag. She had drained the entire canister by the time the door swung open, her teacher glowering at her._  
_Mikasa merely smiled in response._  
_Shadis ran her through their normal warm-up and barre exercises, and then finally, to the centre._

“Let’s see if you have anything left in the tank,” _he had grumbled, preparing to set the volume to its highest level. She_ would _learn from her mistakes. Too much, too soon was as grave a sin as not putting in the effort in the first place._

 _To his utter astonishment, Mikasa had delivered one of the best renditions of the variation to date. Never much of an emoter, she had all but embodied the character of Kitri, the wild innkeeper’s daughter from the streets of Seville who danced her heart out in the wake of heartbreak._  
By the end of it, Mikasa was hunched over, gasping for breath, her hair escaping what was left of her bun and a wide grin on her face.  
“Shall we go again? _” she had asked._

_Shadis had assumed his hardest working student was preparing to leave everything on the stage for the finals; if she gave it her all, and still didn't take gold, she could leave knowing there was absolutely nothing else she could’ve done. Mikasa took surprisingly little issue with being beaten on the rare occasion it happened. But knowing she had more left to give was a fact that would eat away at her, a parasite that could only be purged by completely emptying her reserves. Leaving everything on the stage._

_What Shadis was unaware of, was the pressure Mikasa had decided to shoulder after hearing Carla and Grisha arguing one night, their hushed tones escaping the confines of the kitchen._

_“. . . It’s unrealistic! Best case scenario, they both get partial scholarships. Even then, I just don’t think we can manage to send them both away to study - look,_ don’t _give me that look, Carla! I’m taking every lecturing opportunity I can, which, by the way, is one of the reasons I’m_ never _at home—,”_  
“ One _of the reasons?!”_  
_“— I’m still waiting for my study to be published, what more can I possibly do?”_

_Mikasa was hunched at the top of the stairs, her knuckles white from her hold on the bannisters. She set her gaze on a flake of peeling wallpaper, dark veins of mould peeking out from behind the peach print._

_“We’ll find a way, we always do,” Carla countered, her soft voice floating up the staircase._

_Mikasa was suddenly transported back to her early nights in the Jaeger household, where Carla would smooth her hair away from her forehead and recite fairy stories as she sniffled and hiccupped herself to sleep._

_“This is their dream, Grisha. And it’s not just a dream, it is realistic! They’re talented. With the right teaching environment, they could make careers out of this. I’ll find another part-time job, I still have a couple of days free after the grocery store—”_

_“It still wouldn’t cover the shortfall. Not by a long shot. If they’re so talented, surely one of them could stay and study a little more locally?”_  
_“They’ll never get the same sort of opportunities if they stay here, and you know it. The closest is going to be JKO, which, I suppose would cut down on the travel costs . . .”_

_Mikasa abandoned her perch at the top of the stairs and returned to her bedroom._

_The next morning was the first time she had jimmied her way into the studio before opening hours, punching in the security code she had observed Shadis use dozens of times before._

_As things stood six weeks before the final, the odds of being offered places to study at one of the participating ballet academies were fairly good; a triumphant semi-final in Seattle saw Mikasa and Eren both take 1st place in the classical and contemporary senior divisions respectively, and a respectable 7th for their pas de deux performance._

_Word on the grapevine, according to Shadis, was that a couple of 'very well-known institutions' - he refused to elaborate further - had taken great interest in the stand-out siblings from the Pacific Northwest. The dark haired girl who danced with the precision of a knife edge, technically immaculate in her execution, and the brother whose wild contortions and tangible fury exploded from centre stage all the way to the lobby._

_But an offer to simply study wouldn’t be enough._

_Without financial aid, it was essentially paying lip-service to their talent; ‘yes, we think you're talented and we'd like you to study with us, but not enough to actually go out of our way to make that a reality for you.’_

_Eren's dance specialty had already made itself quite plain at seventeen - a wild and frenetic style of contemporary dance that proved a hit with more modern artistic directors who admired his athleticism and explosive energy on the stage. However, the enthusiasm from the Old Guard and the more classically inclined judges was distinctly muted in comparison. Unfortunately for him, it was the latter that proved to hold most of the influence when it came to deciding upon financial aid. Despite his talent and innate gift for expression through movement, the best Eren could hope for was a partial scholarship._

_If both he and Mikasa were to achieve their goals, if they were both to dance for a professional company one day, they were going to require specific and intensive tutelage, the likes of which only a select number of institutions offered.  
In order for both of them to achieve this milestone, at least one of them was going to need a full scholarship. _

_And so it fell to Mikasa._

_If it came down to it, and partial scholarships were the best each of them were offered, she planned to insist Eren be the one to take the offer to study._  
_She would not - could not - allow Eren to downsize his dreams and not make full use of his potential to be one of the great rising stars of the contemporary dance scene by limiting himself to a more local school. Mikasa was a classical ballet dancer through and through, the demand for which rarely wavered in the world of dance. Even if she were stymied by her teaching options, she figured she could at least find herself a company position and work her way up in one of the more regional ballets._  
_If Eren was to succeed, he needed that tuition, the mentorship that only the best institutions in the world could offer._

_But Mikasa had no intention of studying at what could merely be classed as a ‘good’ school. A regional school._  
_Mikasa wanted to be the best, to learn from the best, to grow and to develop into one of the greatest dancers in the world - with Eren and Armin. Together._  
_So began the early morning practice sessions. She was going to get a full scholarship. Grisha and Carla weren’t going to have to worry about money anymore. _

_And so, following the finals, the trio of friends sat and discussed their enticingly bright futures with sweet treats in hand. Eren was wrestling with his botched tie-knot, an attempt to yank the thing off having reduced it to an undoable size. Armin was doing a fine job of pulling off a bold, green tweed suit at the tender age of seventeen and Mikasa, in her slightly too-large tea dress, was tucking a stray thread from her scarf back into the seam, knowing her destination would not be Monaco with her friends - but London._

_The Royal Ballet School had generously offered a financial aid package that waived the cost of tuition and included all supplies and lodging for the three years of study awaiting her. Mikasa knew she could throw a rock in any direction from their place on the steps and hit a dancer that would be more than prepared to strangle someone for that kind of opportunity. It was an extraordinary offer from an extraordinary school.  
She should be delighted. _

_Despite the fact that the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School in New York had also offered her a full scholarship, despite the half dozen other schools that had offered partial financial aid, Mikasa could not shake the the gnawing, sickening feeling of disappointment in her gut; she wasn’t good enough for the Princess Grace. They didn’t think she was worth it._  
Despite the weeks — the years _— of work, despite the gold medal, she still hadn’t succeeded. The full scholarship had gone to someone in the junior age category. Someone they thought had more potential. Someone better._  
_She wasn’t good enough to keep the three of them together._

 

Mikasa sniffed sharply, her nose burning in the overly air-conditioned carriage.

  **‘Mesdames et messieurs, la prochaine station sera Paris Gare du Nord, notre destination finale. N'oubliez pas de collecter tous vos biens avant de débarquer le train. Merci de votre voyage avec Eurostar.’**

Feeling the train slowing, Mikasa swiftly got to her feet, hauling her backpack over her shoulder. She stepped onto the train seat, reachinginto the luggage rack to retrieve her bulging duffel bag, swaying slightly as the brakes were squeezed sharply.

“Do you need any help?’ a voice asked. “I hate to see a pretty girl struggling in need.” Mikasa look down at the suited man — middle aged, a widow’s peak that was ageing very unkindly, a familiar leer in his eyes.  
She could see where this was going.

“I’m fine,” she said simply, hopping off the seat. Mikasa concentrated very intently on adjusting the strap on her shoulder, willing the other passenger to take a hint and get the fuck out of her face. It was barely noon and the day had already been far too long for her liking.

“Are you sure? Little thing like you shouldn’t be left to carry her bags herself. Here, let me, I’ll find you a taxi —”

“I’m fine,” Mikasa repeated more firmly, twisting her bags from his reach. “Excuse me.”

The man continued to block the aisle. _This fucking pill._

“Come on toots, no need to be stuck up about it, just let me give you a hand and maybe you give me your number in return, how’s that sound?” His voice crept upwards in pitch, in a nauseating impression of what Mikasa assumed he thought was charm.

“Look,” Mikasa fixed him with a steely gaze. “I’ve got somewhere I need to be and I have people waiting. So let me save some time for the both of us; I'm a dumb slut. I’m not that good-looking anyway, I should be grateful someone like me is even getting hit on in the first place and I should go and choke and my pimp’s cock like the stupid whore I am. That about cover it?”

Not waiting for a reply, Mikasa pushed past the dumbstruck passenger and placed herself in front of the train doors, fingers drumming on her phone case impatiently. As soon as the doors swept open with a firm whoosh of hydraulics, she practically bounced off the train, boots pounding on the station platform. Her head swivelled, eyes alert, hopping from person to person behind the ticket barriers.

The tannoy announcements bounced off the wide arches of the Gare du Nord railway station, early March sunlight streaming through the skylights and dappling the pale tiles.

 _Calm down. They’ll be here.  
_ Mikasa slowly exhaled the fume filled air, her stomach growling at the aroma coming from the station cafe. God, she could really go for a croissant. All flakey golden pastry with a soft warm centre and just a drop of strawberry jam . . .

“ **MIKASA**!” a familiar voice bellowed across the station.

Her head snapped around to find the source. She smiled widely at the sight of her oldest friends tucked to the side of a flower cart, flanked by a tall, chiseled blond man - the head of their new company, she assumed.

Eren dropped the sign bearing her name and pulled Mikasa into crushing hug, pulling her bags off her shoulder in the process.

“Mikasa, you made it! You’re here! _We’re here_ , in Paris!” he jabbered, stepping back and thrusting a coffee cup into her hands.

“How much caffeine have you had this morning?” she laughed, the void left by Eren being replaced by a gentle embrace from Armin.

“Not that much, honestly. He’s just got louder since Christmas,” Armin answered instead, resting his chin on the crown of Mikasa’s head. She still struggled somewhat with how a few years apart at the end of their teens had seen her two friends massively overtake her in the height department.

She glanced at the posterboard, her name written in thick, black marker and bordered by a veritable explosion of glitter.

“Jeez, Armin, did you murder a unicorn or something?”

He shrugged bashfully, tucking his hands into the pockets of his peacoat as Eren ruffled his hair uncharacteristically softly.

“Kinda went a bit overboard, huh Armin?” he grinned.

Sensing a break in the conversation, the stoic, blond man stepped forward with a smile.

“Your friends here have been bouncing off the walls all morning. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of catching up to do, but first, I’d like to introduce myself properly - I’m Erwin Smith. We spoke on the phone,” he explained, offering his hand to Mikasa.

She shook his hand firmly, a faint memory of her father explaining the significance of a strong handshake coming to mind. “Thank you for having me.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine.” Erwin pulled a bouquet of carnations from the flower cart, pastel-pink petals invading her field of view.  
“Welcome to Paris.”

 

 _Oh. This dude is fucking_ _smooth_ _._

 

**Author's Note:**

> *[Mikasa's Don Quixote variation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TprdoEK_wEk)  
> *[Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacqueline_Kennedy_Onassis_School_\(ballet\))  
> *[The Royal Ballet School](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Ballet_School)  
> *[Académie Princesse Grace](http://www.balletsdemontecarlo.com/fr/presentation-0)  
> *[The Youth America Grand Prix](https://yagp.org/)  
> *[Trailer for the ballet documentary, First Position, a brilliant film following kids competing at the YAGP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_cOwCKODgs)


End file.
